The Erato Suite
by Ster J
Summary: I have combined the four parts of this story into one. An author keeps getting visited by her various characters, each with a specific complaint.
1. Another StoryTeller

ANOTHER STORYTELLER by Ster J  
  
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Trek. Wish I did. It may own ME, however.  
  
Characters: Spock, Erato  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Genre: General  
  
-----------------------------------------------  
  
I sat at the terminal, racking my brains for a new story. Ideas rolled around I my brain like so many marbles in a jar, but none were deemed worthy.  
  
*Too stupid.*  
  
*Done before.*  
  
*_That_ won't do.*  
  
*So what?*  
  
*Not another Mary Sue story!*  
  
One by one I shot them down, until my head was quiet enough to sense a presence in my room.  
  
"Pardon the intrusion," I heard. A soft male voice, exquisitely low and nearly purring. I had heard that voice for over thirty years, but surely he could not be here!  
  
"Pardon the intrusion," he repeated. "I came to lodge a.complaint." I turned around to face someone I _knew_ could not be there.  
  
By the look of him, this was the Spock of "Unification," or perhaps a few years later. His grey robes complimented the silver in his hair. His eyes were more hooded, his face more lined. The years of rough-scrabble living on Romulus had not been kind, but nothing could change the warm timbre of his voice.  
  
"Spock!" I breathed. He deliciously cocked that oh-so-familiar eyebrow that conveyed his response to me calling him by name, as if to say *We haven't been formally introduced.*  
  
"Since you seem to know who I am," he continued, "perhaps you could tell me where I may take my complaint." I shook myself to keep from staring dumbfounded, and motioned him to take a seat. (That is, of course, after I had removed the food wrappers and questionable laundry piled upon it.) I quickly wiped down the chair with an old T-shirt and he seated himself.  
  
"What is the nature of the complaint?" I managed to say after a few false starts. He folded his arms tightly and took a deep breath before answering. Either he was not used to lodging complaints, or this involved a highly personal issue.  
  
"I have stumbled upon a multitude of fictitious accounts of the lives of my shipmates, my family, and especially myself. I want it to stop."  
  
I was stunned. "Fictitious accounts"? "A multitude of fictitious accounts"?? Was Spock referring to the many websites devoted to Trek fiction?  
  
I flung myself back in my chair. *You are dreaming, kiddo!* I thought. *You are concentrating so hard on writing a new story that the whole process has entered your dreams. YOU are real. HE is not.* I looked up to see Spock studying me.  
  
"Are you able to help me with my request?" he asked, "or can refer me to someone who is?" I studied him for a moment. I was dying of curiosity, but would it be an invasion of his privacy? I sat back up. Privacy be damned! Writers can make characters sprout horns if they wanted. I was going to have Spock unload his gripes to me. There may be a _ton_ of story ideas here!  
  
"I would like to try, Mister Ambassador," I began.  
  
"You have already called me by name, so you may continue. However, I am at a disadvantage here." I started at his mild reproof.  
  
"Erato." Spock tipped his head to me as if he hadn't heard (which was a preposterous thought!) I cleared my throat. "You may call me Erato." He blinked. "As in the Muse." His stare was beginning to get on my nerves. "It's an old family name," I defended. He relaxed a bit.  
  
"Forgive. I thought perhaps you did not trust me with your real name." I lowered my head, but snapped it up at his next utterance. "My name, too, is an old family name."  
  
"But I thought you were named Spock because it meant bridge-builder!" I blurted. Spock looked at me as if I had sprouted a third eye.  
  
"Nooo. I was named after my great-great-grandfather." I was confused. "I also had a human relative with that same name." *Now WAIT a MINUTE!* I thought.  
  
"In the incident leading up to the Khittomer Accords, you inferred that you were related to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!" I exclaimed. Now Spock looked confused.  
  
"I was quoting my ancestor--_Sherlock Holmes_. Another distant relative of Mother's was the famous pediatritian, Doctor Benjamin Spock." Spock drew himself up in his chair and hugged his arms closer as if to shield himself. "_This_ is what I am talking about. There are many fallacies in these fictitious accounts. I want 'to set the record straight,' as my human friends once said." I rummaged through a desk drawer and pulled out a yellow pad and a fat grip pen. I wanted to take notes!  
  
"If you would give me a list of said fallacies," I said, trying to sound non-chalant, but coming across as over-eager, "I could post them for the benefit of the other writers. We could put a stop to promoting these lies." Spock nodded, the overhead lights picking up the silver in his hair.  
  
"Very well." He loosened the death grip he had around himself and rested his hands in his lap.  
  
"Number one-I had a very close, intimate friendship with James Kirk, one that did not require physical intimacy to maintain the depth of the relationship." I stopped writing.  
  
"So you are not.gay?" I asked quietly, as if someone else could be in my studio apartment without my knowledge. Spock leaned forward in his chair and looked me straight (no pun intended) in the eye.  
  
"Ask T'Pring. Ask Leila Kolomi. Ask.Ask Zarabeth." His voice lowered to a whisper on that last name. I sat back and studied him. There was a quiet sadness about him as he spoke the woman's name.  
  
"Did you ever go back for her? For Zarabeth?" I asked quietly. Spock lowered his eyes and shook his head.  
  
"It would have been unethical to do so." Spock was quiet many moments more. He shook himself. "Which brings me to the next point.  
  
"Number two-I am a hybrid, therefore sterile. Why do these stories have me fathering so many children? Logically." Spock noticed a distressed look on _my_ face. "Does this disturb you?" I nodded.  
  
"It's kind of sad, you know?" I sniffed. "We fans like to think that you would have given your own child much more that your father ever gave you." Spock's mouth dropped open.  
  
"That is so illogical!" he breathed. "My father provided me with food and lodging. He taught me all he knew about computers, preparing me well for my Starfleet career. He made certain that I learned the Vulcan disciplines and the Way of Life so that I could function in an unforgiving reality, while at the same time allowing my mother to teach me about Terran culture- literature, music, art, etc." I sat forward.  
  
"But then he so vehemently opposed your enlisting in Starfleet that he gave you the silent treatment for eighteen years," I countered, "and had further animosity towards you near the end of his life!" Spock shook his head.  
  
"After Sarek died, and Captain Picard shared his memories of their mind meld, I was able to understand my father better." Spock sighed at the reminiscence. "Father only wanted to keep me safe. He felt he could not protect me if I were away in space. _That_ is what separated us. If he already declared me dead by disowning me, then he wouldn't be hurt when I died." My eyebrows shot up. It was my turn to say it.  
  
"That is so illogical!" Spock nodded  
  
"At Mount Seleya, Sarek said, 'My logic is uncertain where my son is concerned.'" I saw Spock's eyes mist over and his lips pull into a tight line. "That," he rasped, "was a _public_ declaration of his affection for me." He briefly covered his eyes with his hand. "I can only appreciate it now that he is gone." I let him stay silent for about a minute.  
  
"What is point four?" I asked quietly. He looked up at me.  
  
"I believe that we are on point three," he corrected. He sat up again. "Number three-What are all the beatings about?" I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant. "During my Starfleet career, I had many injuries of various degrees, but these accounts have me being flogged, whipped, branded, beaten, raped, and tortured over and over. A psychologist would have a field day, as the saying goes, with these stories." Memories of his physical injuries seemed to haunt him, so he quickly moved to the next topic.  
  
"Number four-I am _not_ promiscuous." I lower my head to hide my blush. I had written a few of these tales. "These stories have me 'sleeping around,' as Mother would have called it, with women, men, aliens." He crossed his arms once more. "And I _must_ draw the line when it comes to Leonard McCoy. There was professional respect between us and friendship, but the thought of the good doctor and myself as 'partners' would have abhorred him. He fancied himself 'a ladies' man and a Southern gentleman.'" He paused. "Enough said on that point."  
  
"Number five-I do _not_ get drunk." This one seemed to strike a sore point; he seemed most indignant! "Alcohol does not affect me the same as it would affect a human. Nor do I find the taste appealing. If, in a social occasion I can avoid it, I will abstain." I tried-unsuccessfully- hide my smile. Some of those "drunken Vulcan" stories were _funny!_  
  
"Number six-I have _not_ had every exotic disease in the book." He seemed to want to say more but thought better of it. I looked up.  
  
"What were you going to say, Spock?" I asked.  
  
"Number seven-"  
  
"Please," I interrupted. "What were you going to say?" Spock squirmed in his seat.  
  
"This is part of Number Three. I see the whippings and the illnesses as a means to an end." He didn't say more.  
  
"You mean, hurt/comfort?" I prompted. Spock nodded.  
  
"It seems to be a plot point that shows me as weak and vulnerable," he replied, "as if that is the only way I will allow someone to touch me." I felt a wicked grin threaten to spread across my face.  
  
"Is it?" I asked. I saw a warm twinkle in his eye.  
  
"Ask my wife." No need to hide my smile that time. I saw it reflected in Spock's eyes.  
  
"Number seven-" he continued. "Vulcans have emotions. Vulcans have very STRONG emotions. That is why we have to gain mastery over them to prevent us from returning to savage times. I have to keep a constant guard on my emotions, even in private. Is it tiring? Indeed, yes. Do I want to travel a different path? Absolutely not." Spock grew very quiet again. "I tried, once, near the beginning of my Starfleet career, to try that other path." He sighed. "It was a long, hard struggle back." I thought about this.  
  
"You seemed different after your return from the dead," I mused. "During the Khittomer Accords, you seemed more relaxed."  
  
"And more emotional," he interrupted. "That did not serve me well, especially after Valeris' treachery. It took me a long while to...recover." Spock sat silently for a long time. I quietly filled in my notes as I waited, keeping one eye on him. Spock stirred. He put his hands on the armrests as if to leave. "So you see why I do not appreciate those stories that show me wanting things to be different." He started to stand. I put out a hand.  
  
"Please wait!" I asked. I scanned the list. "Is this all you wanted to say?" Spock didn't reply. "There's more, isn't there," I stated. Spock leaned back.  
  
"There is much more," he said, "but if you could affect these changes, I will be satisfied." I tapped my pen on this pad as I thought.  
  
"You know," I began slowly, "If _you_ could write your story, it would dispel all of these.errors."  
  
"A biography?" He replied. I nodded. Spock shook his head. "Preposterous. Who would buy it? It would be boring compared to what I have already read." I was shocked.  
  
"_Boring?_" I repeat. "Spock, how could it be boring? Look at all you have seen, everywhere-and everywhen-you have been! It couldn't possibly be boring!" He considered this.  
  
"I am too involved with my work on Romulus to write a _biography_." He said the word with such distaste that it made me smile.  
  
"I could ghostwrite it for you!" I suggest. Spock considered this for a brief moment.  
  
"Fine. I will dictate it to you." He looked at my pen and pad on my lap, as if to say, *Get ready.* I turned to a fresh sheep of paper. "I was born on Vulcan. I lived my life. I worked for peace." He stopped.  
  
"That's it?" I asked, dismayed. Spock shook his head.  
  
"Anything else would be an invasion of privacy," he countered. I glared at him, and he stared at me.  
  
"Impasse?"  
  
"Impasse."  
  
"Fine." I tore the sheets of notes from the pad and held it before his face and ripped them in two. _That_ drew a reaction from the Vulcan.  
  
"I thought you were going to help me dispel all these fallacies." I didn't let him finish.  
  
"I changed my mind." (My, that sounded harsh to me!) "Spock, if you want these stories to change, then you will have to give us a good reason to do it." He stood finally.  
  
"Very well, then, Ms. Erato," he said coldly. "I'll just have to find another storyteller who is a little more agreeable. Good day." He turned heel and left.  
  
*WHAT DID I JUST DO??!!!*  
  
I bent down and picked up the torn sheets of paper. Rummaging about for the tape, I started to put the pages back together.  
  
FIN 


	2. The Wrath of Mom

THE WRATH OF MOM by Ster Julie

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Trek. Wish I did. It may own ME, however...

Characters: Amanda, OFC

Rating: PG

Genre: Goofy

Setting: My kitchen...

A/N: Sequel to "A New Storyteller"

---

"WHAT IS THIS?!"

I jumped at the sound of woman's voice, one very pissed off woman's voice. Odd thing was, I knew I was alone, the doors were locked, and the windows were on the safety latch. No one else should be here. I put aside my laptop, eased myself quietly off the couch and padded on slippered feet toward the kitchen.

Through the doorway, I could see a slim, older woman. Her face was framed by short, pearly white hair, which set off her expressive blue eyes beautifully. The dove-grey robes she wore gave her a stately air, despite the tantrum she was in the midst of throwing.

I pulled myself up short. I recognized this woman. "Not again!" I groaned. Spock had only left a few hours before. Screwing up my courage, I walked into the kitchen.

"Lady Amanda," I began.

"WHAT IS THIS?!" she repeated, waving one of my refrigerator magnets under my nose.

I backed up, afraid that this slip of a woman was about to knock my block off.

"Well, Missy?" she hissed. "I asked you a question!"

That did it! Nobody but old Aunt Thena called me Missy. Actually she called every girl in the family Missy—and the boys Buster—because she couldn't remember anyone's name. Didn't mean that I liked it, and today I was in no mood to be spoken to like that.

"The name's Erato," I said, snatching the magnet out of Amanda's hand, "and that's my fridgie."

The two of us glared at each other for a moment, panting, and sizing each other up. I shook my head.

"I don't know what's going on today," I muttered. "You son just left here not three hours ago." Amanda's face softened.

"Spock was here?" she murmured. Shaking herself, Amanda tried to recapture her earlier indignation. "Why do you have that?" she asked, pointing with distaste at my magnet.

"It's a picture of your son," I replied in confusion. "Why do you object to it?"

"Look at it," Amanda stated as if that would answer my question.

"So?" I replied.

"Look at Spock's face!" she ordered.

I looked. Spock was his hands before him, fingers touching, and he was staring a little wild-eyed into the space between his palms.

"That was taken at Koon-ut Kali-fee, wasn't it?" Amanda demanded moving aimlessly through my house. "Spock was deep in the plak tow, then, burning for that little bitch—"

"Lady Amanda!" I was shocked.

"Hey, I can be a le matya when I need to be!" she retorted. "The thing is, this was the most private moment of Spock's life, an extremely difficult time in his life. He would be mortified if he saw it hanging on display!"

Suddenly, Amanda stopped dead in her tracks. Oh no! I thought. She has spotted the picture by my bed!

"WHAT IS THIS?!" she screamed. I blocked her from ripping it off my wall!

It was a photo-manipulation of a shirtless Spock, his black leather pants slung low on his hips. One eyebrow was raised; the other was covered by the long hair hanging in his face. His goatee was neatly trimmed and it framed his luscious lips.

"Mine!" was all I could say, moving between Amanda and the picture. "I can be a le matya, too, you know!"

Amanda's hand was blocked from my artwork, so instead she seized my liquor decanter bust of Spock from STTMP. The head came off in Amanda's hand, and she screamed. The rest of the bust fell over, knocking the candles and flowers I had arranged on either side of the bust after STWOK. I leapt over and caught Spock's head as it slipped from his mother's fingers.

"THIS IS SICK!" Amanda shouted. Turning to storm out of my room, she espied another poster of Spock, also from "Amok Time." The sight of being on the business end of a lirpa unnerved her. She hurried from the room toward the door. I was able to finally catch up to her at the door.

"Please, Amanda. Don't go," I begged. "I don't know why you came, and you're leaving already."

Amanda took several deep breaths to stop her trembling before she could speak.

"I came to ask a favor," she whispered.

"Anything," I soothed. "What kind of favor?"

"I was looking for someone who could prevent this kind of shameful marketing," Amanda replied.

"Shameful marketing?" I repeated lamely. She should look online and see the kind of stuff that's out there for free, including some extremely hot pictures of her own husband!

"It varies from place to place," Amanda replied. "I've seen pictures of my own son plastered on billboards, on something called 'ice lollies,' on rubber stamps, coffee mugs..."

I pushed my mug under the couch with one foot.

"...T-shirts, stickers, dolls, and all sorts of folderol. It has to stop." Amanda moved closer to me, pleading with her voice and her eyes. "Can you help?"

I looked into those beautiful orbs, knowing now how they had once melted an ambassador's heart. I wanted to leap tall buildings for her, to cure a rainy day, to do just as she said—but I knew that it was unfeasible. I shook my head sadly.

"It would be impossible," I breathed. "As long as there is a market, manufacturers will continue to put your son's face out there. "

"Vulcan produces beautiful musical instruments and fabulous textiles," Amanda countered. "Couldn't those be marketed instead?"

"Unless the instruments and the textiles bear the likeness of your son, they just won't sell," I replied. Amanda's shoulders slumped sadly.

"Could you at least start a decency campaign?" she asked. "A 'good taste' movement?"

I pondered this. Would this be considered a violation of Free Speech? I looked into those entreating eyes again and melted.

"I'll see what I can do," I promised. I don't see how this could ever happen, not with the "dark side" of the right of free speech, but why dash her hopes?

I was rewarded with one of Amanda's sweet smiles. I was hoping that my security camera captured it. It would make great wallpaper!

"Thank you so much," she replied warmly. "I appreciate whatever you can do, uh, Miss...?"

"Erato," I supplied. Amanda blinked.

"Erato? Like the muse?" I rolled my eyes.

"I get that all the time," I answered, exasperated. "Yes, Erato. Like the muse. We're Greek, for Pete's sake!"

"Oh!" Amanda replied. "I thought it was a knickname, or that you didn't trust me with your real name." I smiled.

"Your son thought the same thing," I chuckled.

It was fascinating to see the warm and loving look that came over Amanda's face as I mentioned Spock. She truly loved her boy!

"Fascinating!" she replied.

We both enjoyed a hearty laugh. I reached out a hand to Amanda, which she squeezed firmly.

"Please come back again, Lady Amanda," I invited. "I would love to hear some wonderful baby stories about Spock."

Amanda threw back her head and chuckled.

"You and everybody else!"

FIN


	3. Christine's Turn

CHRISTINE'S TURN

ERATO'S SUITE # 3 by Ster Julie

RATING: PG

GENRE: HUMOR

It was a dark and stormy night—really! I had gone to bed early because I had no intention of letting my computer get fried by the power surges the storm was causing. The power was going out more often than a cheap hooker, so, no lights, no cable, no computer, and no phone equals no use staying up! I got into my shooting stars flannel jammies, crawled between the sheets, and tried NOT to dream of being in a deep space phaser fight.

Three hours into dreamland, my front door is blown open by a gust of wind. I pull a throw around my shoulders and go downstairs to secure the door, when I saw her.

"Here we go again!" I mutter

None other than Christine Chapel waltzes in, happy as a clam. Whereas my other visitors visited to register their complaints, Chris is on cloud 9. She has that gleam in her eye as she spins and pirouettes happily around my den.

"Can I help you?" I ask as she twirls by. Christine stops briefly, just long enough to hug me.

"You have done plenty!" she smiles.

"Why the happy dance?" I ask her as she continues her ballet.

"I finally have my man!" she beams. "Ninety percent of the stories out there show me in a good light, no, a GREAT light! Most of them let me get my Vulcan, even marrying him and popping out babies with him by the armload!" She pauses her story to pound her feet into the floor and her fists into the air with glee. "Only one story in 25 shows me as a ditz, but I'm not bothered by those. There is even a cluster of stories where I get Kirk instead, a handful where I get BOTH of them, and a stray story of me with McCoy, Sarek, or women." She stops a moment and looks down. "That last bit is not my cup of tea," she raised her head and beams again, "but I'm just so elated with the Spock and Christine stories that I don't mind those, either!"

Christine stops and looks at me, bedraggled, wrapped in a blanket. She realizes in the middle of her happy dance that she has awakened me.

"Oh! You were asleep!" she apologizes. "I'm so sorry for waking you. I just ... " She gets that gleam in her eyes again. "I just wanted to thank you writers for making a girl's dreams come true!" She grinned so broadly that I thought her face might break..

As Christine turns to leave, she spots THE pix of Spock in leather jeans.

"Ooh!" she breathed. She pulled the poster from the wall and hugs it. "I took this picture!" she says. "I even helped Spock pick out the clothes, the look, the pose, and ... all." I swear, she actually blushed! "In the copy I have, the top two buttons of his jeans are undone and—oh, my!" She closes her eyes and, moaning, hugs the poster to herself.

I tell her, "Good bye, get out of my room, and tell your friends to stay away. All these Dickensian visitations are creeping me out!" Christine starts to waltz with my poster, humming a tune from Rodger and Hammerstein's "Cinderella."

"Okay," she responds as she waltzes out my door. I pull the poster from her before she goes out into that dark night, singing.

"I have found him.

He's an angel.

He's the light of the stars in my eyes.

We are dancing, we are flying,

and he's taking me back to the skies.

In the arms of my love, I'm flying

through mountain and meadow and glen.

We're flying so high that we touch the sky.

We may never come down again.

We may never come down to earth again."

"Suits me fine," I mutter. "Just all y'all stay away from me, hear?" I slam the door and bolt it, jump back into my warm bed and pull the covers over my head.

"Why can't I have a normal life?" I asked before falling blissfully asleep.

FIN


	4. The Stampede

**THE STAMPEDE**

ERATO'S SUITE # 4: by Ster Julie

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Trek. Wish I did. It may own ME, however…

Characters: The gang, OFC

Rating: PG

Genre: General, humor

Setting: My sickbed

A/N: Last movement of The Erato Suite; sequel to "Another Storyteller"

---

Members of Enterprise's bridge crew burst into my hospital room, led by Jim Kirk. Somehow, even though my eyes are closed I could see that they are pissed! One by one, they lean over my sickbed and hurl accusations at me like rice at newlyweds.

"I dun't talk vit an accent," Chekov complains.

"Aye!" Scott adds. "Neither doo aye!"

"I'm a doctor, not an angst-ridden old coot," McCoy grumbles. "Treat me with some respect!"

"Boys, boys!" Uhura protests. "Leave her alone!"

"Don't start, Ny!" Sulu whines. "You were featured in two and a half stories. I never get more than a passing mention, if at all."

"I've never been passive in my life," Kirk announces. "Well, maybe once ... "

"It's not about you, Jim!" McCoy thunders. "It doesn't always have to be about you!"

"But it's NEVER about me!" Kirk gripes "She always writes me in as filler. I thought everyone liked me. What's not to like?"

"We're ALL filler," McCoy observes. "The only one she really cares about is her precious Spock-ums."

"Spockums!" Chekov repeated with a snort.

"We're only in her stories to further the tale about Spock," Kirk observed. "Spock, Spock, Spock! What IS it about him, anyway?"

Uhura gets a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes as a small smile teases her lips. The guys all roll their eyes. Uhura leans over me and brushes my sweaty hair back away from my face.

"Erato, darling," she begins, "thanks for my stories. You did a good job. Don't mind these egotistical blowhards. They are so full of themselves," she adds, turning toward the men, "and full of something else, too. Leave the poor girl alone! Can't you see she's sick?" McCoy's ears perk up.

"Sick? Here, let me take a look," he offers. Kirk pulls him back.

"Bones, you're fictional!" Kirk explains. "You can't help her."

"I'm a doctor, not a character!" McCoy explodes.

"Oh, you're a character, all right!" Uhura observes.

"See?" Scot said to no one in particular. "Even in this story, I get only one line!"

"Same here," Sulu agrees. "The only way we get a second line is to complain."

"This vould never be allowed in Russia," Chekov announces. Sulu rolls his eyes.

"Oh, don't start that Russia crap!" he begs.

"Vy not?" Chekov demands. "Dun't you know that Russia is the cradle of ciwilization?" It was now Scott's turn to roll his eyes.

"That was Iraq, Chekov," he corrected.

"Iraq?" Chekov repeats.

"Don't even go there!" Sulu orders.

Uhura stops caressing my hair to turn angrily on the three complainers.

"Would you boys shut up?" she demands. "We're frightening this poor girl and she needs her sleep so she can get well."

"Indeed," Spock agrees. "Ms. Erato is quite ill."

"Spock!" Kirk exclaims.

"It figures that you'd show up," McCoy spits.

Everyone turns as a new voice enters the mix.

"Has anyone seen my wife?"

"Mr. Ambassador!"

"Father!"

"Amanda left in such a bad state this morning," Sarek stated. "I have not seen her since. Something about a ... a 'fridgie'?"

Blank looks were exchanged all around.

"Where's Nurse Chapel?" Kirk asks at last.

"I thought Christine would be here for sure," McCoy comments.

"I saw her out dancing in a field of flowers," Uhura announces.

"What has she got to be so happy about?" Kirk asks grumpily.

"Me," Spock states.

"YOU?" everyone choruses.

"Yes," Spock continues. "Ms. Erato was kind enough to grant Christine's every desire in her stories."

"Oh?" McCoy comments. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I am at peace," Spock responds. "She has her fantasy, and I have my reality."

"Chapel gets her fantasies!" Kikr complains. "What about MY fantasies?"

"Reality?" McCoy repeats. "We're all a bunch of fictional characters."

"If you believe that," Spock observes, "then you have not achieved awareness."

"Awareness?" McCoy counters. "As in artificial intelligence? Poppycock!"

"Call it what you wish," Spock says. "I have been given such a rich background and culture that I have achieved self-awareness."

"That's what we're here to complain about!" Sulu states. "We don't get as much attention as you do."

"Aye," Scott comments. "How can we develop if we are ignored?"

"Hey!" Chekov fumes. "Vere's my line?"

"Calm down, Pavel," Uhura answers as she pats Chekov's hand. "You'll get your chance."

"I believe that we should continue this discussion elsewhere," Spock declares. "Ms. Erato is not able to get the sleep she so desperately needs." Kirk studies Spock for a moment.

"Spock," he asks, "when did you get so old?"

"You were killed off at the age of 63," Spock replied gently. "I am currently 152 Earth-equivalent years old." McCoy also gives Spock a critical look.

"Are you happy?" the doctor asks. Spock thinks about his wife, his children and grandchildren, his careers.

"I am content," he answers simply.

"I vould like to be content," Chekov grumbles.

"Me, too," chimes in Sulu.

"Och," Scott said with disgust, "will ye listen to yerselves, lads!"

"Put a sock in it, Scotty!" Sulu mumbles.

"Da!" Chekov agrees.

"Spock's right," Kirk says as he bends over my sweaty, feverish self. "Let's leave our little author so she can get some sleep."

Kirk herds everyone out a glowing door that suddenly apprears. Amanda pops out of nowhere and joins her husband, angry words still pouring from her lips.

"Sarek," she storms, "you won't believe the things she has hanging in her house. Pictures of our son in all sorts of poses ... "

Sarek guides his wife out the door, stopping only to look at me and raise one elegant eyebrow. Oh, no. Please, no! Not another visitation!

Uhura moves back to my side, leans over the bed and kisses my sweaty brow. How sweet!

"Get well soon, Sugar," she whispers. "Thanks for putting up with us. Get better soon, hear?"

---

I waken to the sound of someone fussing over me. I raise leaden, grainy eyelids.

"Welcome back!" the nurse exclaims.

/Away with you!/ I think. /You are far too cheery this early in the morning./

"Sure glad your fever broke, Erato," the nurse continued. "You were delirious! You'd never believe some of the things you were saying." She holds a cup to my lips so I can take a few small sips of water.

"That wasn't delirium," I rasp. "I was having visitations."

The golden door cracks open again and a wreck of a street woman, circa 17th century England, pokes her shaggy head through and sneers at me.

"Spirits! Spirits!" she cries in a taunting voice. "They'll burn ye!"

"Get out! Get out!" I scream weakly, shaking in fear as I throw the covers over my head. "No bit characters! I've had enough. AAAHHHH!!!!"

End part 4

FIN


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